Parachute
by PenguinsWillReignSupreme
Summary: There's nothing to be scared of if you know someone will be there to catch you. Molly II/Lysander


**Parachute**

She waited for him as she always did. Picnic basket nestled against her chest, she wriggled backwards on the rug and squinted. The sun was reaching its peak in the sky, climbing faster and faster now that it had almost reached the summit, and she could feel her skin creeping and tautening like plastic under a flame. Pulling the blanket around her, despite the warm air, she leant back, bare skin on breaking tiles, and looked through narrow eyes to the bottom of the garden.

Fenced in, held back, it had always been the same. She edged up, her gaze straining over the tips of towering evergreens to tomorrow, to one day soon, to please let things work. The ugly leaves lurched towards her, the stench of imprisonment masked by freshly mown grass, broken foliage and wooden promises of something the other side, something new.

"I'm not climbing up."

She smiled, leaning forwards to confirm, to ensure, to know that it was him, and there he was. Snowstorms made him beautiful, but sunlight's hazy caress did nothing for his pastel features. A golden ghost in a white blanket turned to translucency under summer skies and she laughed, unfolding her legs and whipping ruby curls behind her ears.

"Come on. You won't fall."

The same promise as last year, the summer before, and the one that preceded it. No matter how many times she said it, he never would. With a shake of his head and a smile on his lips, he waited for her to take his breath away. Perfect balance in ankle-sock clad feet, she pulled the rug from under her and wrapped it like a cloak around her bare shoulders. Picnic basket looped under her arm, she slid with the utmost grace to the edge of the roof.

"Catch."

_"I can't catch you!" seven-year-old Lysander scoffed, hands on his hips and eyes rolling so much that he almost felt dizzy. Molly's seven-year-old giggle chased down to him and she shook her head, feet firmly wedged into the gutter to retain her balance._

"_Not me, silly."_

_Gently, she dropped her blanket and the two dolls she'd brought to the rooftop with her to the ground. She might have gasped, if she hadn't had the greatest confidence not in her friend's ability to catch but knowing that she trusted him so much that she knew he would sooner dive through the kitchen window to catch Florrie than let a twist of coffee bean hair touch the ground._

_One. Two. Three. Each landed neatly in his skinny arms and he grinned up at her, missing his front two teeth. She smiled back, eyes lighting up behind purple frames._

"_How are you going to get down?"_

It had been a mystery to him then, but even now she made him hold his breath, and whisper, "Careful," up towards her. The first time, she'd looked unsteady, her hands clenched white and her arms shaking in the effort to keep herself suspended. Now, she did it with the grace of a ballerina poised en pointe. Her bedroom window wide open, she curled herself off the tiles, hands gripping the edge of the gutter as her legs slipped into the house. One hand free, it gripped the window frame and then the other and she disappeared behind pale blue curtain sashes.

"Where are we going then, soldier?" she asked, twirling out her house like a ribbon fluttering on a maypole. He shifted the picnic basket on his arm and slung the other one around her with a nonchalance that he didn't feel inside. The way her arm slid around his waist momentarily made his stomach tuck in as he drew a sharp breath. Her fingers barely grazed his t-shirt but they scalded him nonetheless, imprints of swirling fingerprints marked on him forever; invisible but there. Always there.

"Same as usual?" he suggested, glancing down to her. She grinned and nodded. "Shoes?"

_"Don't be silly," Molly laughed. Nine now, and just about old enough to escape the confines of her redbrick sanctuary for an hour, she spun away from him and through the front door. Leaving the door ajar, he bent down and tucked a pair of battered white pumps into the picnic basket; she'd thank him later. _

_The sound Molly's feet crunching over the gravelled driveway made Lysander's heart jerk in a way that only Dominique's hand on his arm had ever managed before. Her yell of, "Coming?" echoed through the gap in the door and he didn't need to be asked twice._

_Pulling the door shut behind him, closing off the whispers and twitching curtains, he shuddered when Molly slipped a thin arm through his and skipped beside him._

"_Doesn't it hurt?"_

"How many times do I have to tell you?" she asked, exasperated and teasing simultaneously with a grin of infuriating glee pulling on her narrow lips. The pointed stone under the bottom of his battered trainers dug uncomfortably into the soles of his feet and his eyes drew naturally to the shape of her cotton clad feet moulding themselves over the gravel, over the agony. Some people said she sugar coated everything, a daydreamer with a golden lining for everything. "It doesn't."

"You're nuts."

"So I've been told, but I prefer the term brave." Her nose in the air, she unhooked her arm from around his waist – a gesture they'd progressed into as the years drove past – and snatched the rug from off the basket. Wrapping it around her sturdy frame, she pushed herself up onto the tips of her toes and danced with no coordination towards the street. He gave up chasing her a long time ago. She pirouetted out of sight, the sound of feet padding down the tarmac melting into the rumble of traffic in the distance.

_"You shouldn't run off!" he scolded, eleven and older, wiser, nearly twelve and nearly time for a new adventure, a new tree to climb, a different path of gravel for her to walk painlessly across. He crossed the park with purpose towards where she had collapsed, near the holly bush that she had so often picnicked under with her aunts, uncles, parents, cousins – endless numbers of cousins. She lifted her head and stared him down as he jumped over the bottom of the slide and threw the basket down at her side._

"_You should run after me," she retorted._

Maybe that was when he first realised something was different. He stood at the gate of the park, silent as the school bells rang in the distance, infants in nursery, kids in lessons, too early for shoplifting teenagers to consume their prizes on the broken swings. He didn't comment again after that, didn't yell his distaste at her because he feared the response. Teenage tantrums had come early to her, and though they were a distant memory now, he didn't want to hear another word, another sentence, another noise that made him doubt what they were.

"Swiss roll or Battenberg?" she asked, not even looking up to him as he sat beside her on the rug. Flipping the top of the basket open, he handed her a tin foil package, taking another in his hands.

"Half and half?"

_"I don't like this," Molly muttered, picking at the currants in the fruit cake her mother had given them for their lunch. Thirteen and fussier than ever, she rolled a piece of sponge between newly manicured fingertips before flicking it into the grass. Her plum coloured nails did not suit her, but Victoire had insisted, and the dark red lipstick made her look like a trainee prostitute, but Dominique had attacked her before she could protest. Lysander had arrived before she could remove them, and it was worth keeping them on for the look of horror on his face at the sight of her._

"_Swap?" he asked, through a mouthful of apple pie. The rest was out of his grip before he'd finished his bite._

"Of course," she answered, tearing the foil open and snapping the Battenberg in half, a pink and yellow square each. She looked up, holding out her half of the deal to see him biting his half of the other cake off. "You're disgusting," she added, though she could not suppress her laughter as he swallowed, his lips coated in a thick layer of butter cream that his tongue had forgotten to wipe away. Placing the other cake in the remains of the tinfoil, she reached forwards and ran a thumb across his lips, shaking her head in faint despair. He dropped his eyes and watched her wipe her hand on the edge of the foil and look back up at him.

Was his heart beating that loudly?

_"Ly, will you do me a favour?" she asked, running her hand over the pattern of her skirt. Just easing out of the age when awkward looks ruled her life, sixteen was sweeter than ever. He looked over to her, putting his hand to his eyes to see her properly against the sun which was beginning to make its descent now. He nodded._

"_Of course."_

"Kiss me."

_"What?" he spluttered, sitting up and looking down at her. She still traced patterns over her cotton skirt and couldn't bring her eyes to meet his._

"_Please?" He shook his head. "I'm sixteen and I've never been kissed and –" she trailed off, looking under her lashes at him. His heart strained against his ribcage, breath catching in his lungs and he could feel his mouth agape but couldn't close it. He tried and he tried but nothing and so he expelled the breath that jolted up his throat._

"_Okay."_

He didn't splutter this time. It seemed far more serious, far more natural. It wasn't spontaneous but it wasn't manufactured from pity and false desire. It was affirmation. Affirmation of everything he'd thought he might have wanted, and everything he knew he needed.

_It was awkward. He'd only kissed two girls before; Dominique, for a bet, and Wendy Davies in the Potions store cupboard. They'd both been standing up then. Did it work…differently if you were sat down? And it was _Molly,_ after all. Molly; his not quite best friend, not quite anything._

This was Molly too, but it was Molly, the reason he came home. It was Molly, the reason he was brave enough to sit on the outside windowsill of the top floor bedroom; Molly, the best friend who made his heart want to burst into flame; Molly, the girl he needed now more than he needed to breathe. He was fairly sure breathing was overrated.

_Glasses clashed, noses in the way, hands awkwardly placed; it was a kiss, barely. She drew away first, looking ashamed and worried and far smaller than before. He said nothing, merely settled back down and took another bite of a strawberry._

Glasses gone so long ago, brilliant blue met sky grey and shimmered in diffracting sunlight like the twist of a kaleidoscope in the depths of dark obscurity. Hands in the way last time now became hands entwined within the other's. He did not need to think about whether it was going to be right or wrong. He knew. She did not need to worry about what he'd think. She didn't care.

Lips met lips, hands in hands became hands cupping cheeks, hands through hair; sitting up became lying down and a kiss became a _kiss _and it was right and it was Molly and Lysander, finally.

"We should get back," she murmured, a fraction of a centimetre from lips on lips once again. He rested his forehead on hers and nodded against her. "I told Mum I'd be back for tea." Hesitantly, she pecked his lips once more and stood to her feet. As he packed away, she swiped a pair of white pumps from the basket. "You still bring them for me?"

"Every time," he confirmed, tucking the tinfoil away and sweeping the blanket around her shoulders. She pulled it tighter and tried not to shiver as he swung his arm around her. The feel of lips in her hair – the same lips that she'd kissed not five minutes ago, those which had tasted of the lingering remains of butter cream –made her cheeks heat up and her legs feel weak and she felt like a schoolgirl caught in a broom cupboard with her first love.

Of course, that was what he was, even if she hadn't realised it. Even if it had taken two crushes on Teddy, a fling with Matt Davies and a weekend in Vienna with Lance Jordan for her to add up the pieces, it had always been Lysander, underneath it all. He'd picked up the pieces, stapled them together until he could find the glue to fix them. He'd broken hearts, promises, even noses, all for her, and she hadn't even noticed. He didn't care. She'd noticed now.

"It's a gorgeous night," she murmured, staring around her at the stars – gold-leaf shavings glittering against the navy sky. She heard him mutter his agreement and looked up. Night became him. He caught moonlight in just the right places, blonde hair shimmering, his blue eyes glistened with the desire to be seen. "You know where we'd see it better from?"

_"I'm not going up _there_," seven-year-old Lysander exclaimed, gazing up at the roof and shaking his head firmly. Molly, hair held up in pigtails, grinned across at him. "And nor are you!"_

"_Wanna bet?" she challenged, sticking her tongue out and twirling on the spot. Her hair bounced on her head and she disappeared into the house. Crossing his arms firmly across his chest, he looked up to her bedroom window and waited for her tiny figure to appear behind the glass. Her tongue stuck out of her lips as she thrust open the window and Lysander's gasp at the way she stepped fearlessly out of the window ricocheted up to her. She grinned._

"_Don't be silly!"he shouted as she pulled herself onto the roof with apparent ease, blanket and stuffed toys in hand. She turned and sat down on the tiles, watching down at him with quirked eyebrows._

"_Come on, scaredy cat!" she replied, pulling the blanket closer. He shook his head. "Don't you love me?"_

"'_Course I do. Just not enough to climb up there."_

"I knew I'd get you up here eventually."

Molly smirked as she pulled the blanket around her. Rooting her feet against the tiles, she curled into him. The arm around her shoulders shook and his fingers dug uncomfortably into her upper arm but he was there, on her roof, as night fell and today waved goodbye, tomorrow's eyes fluttering open over the tips of the trees. The leaves no longer wafted towards her with teasing games of imprisonment and no escape; they beckoned, they invited her to climb over them, past the top and to the future.

"You didn't tell me it'd be so bloody terrifying," he retorted, his teeth chattering a little, meshing together, a clipped staccato punctuating the still air. She laughed the laugh of a child who had outsmarted her elders, and he couldn't help but join her as they lay back, heads on the pillow she'd brought out. Sock clad feet sticking out the end of the blanket, he pulled her tighter to him. The feel of her hands on his arms stopped the shaking, her lips made his teeth stop chattering; she made him feel like he was flying.

"There's nothing to be scared of," she murmured, fingertips trailing over his hip. "Not if you know someone will be there to catch you."

* * *

**A/N: Just so I could say I'd shipped her off with everyone canon! **


End file.
